


Starting with Safety

by canolacrush



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (that's really a tag?!), Banter, Established Relationship, M/M, Nudity, Or the lack thereof, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Smoking, lab safety, or: How To Get Your Flatmate Wet and Naked with Virtually No Effort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canolacrush/pseuds/canolacrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Take off <b><em>all</em></b> your clothes.  Don’t let modesty make your injury worse.” —<em>Starting with Safety: An Introduction for the Academic Chemistry Laboratory</em>, brought to you by the American Chemical Society (©1991)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starting with Safety

Sherlock examines a dead fly with a pair of tweezers.  He twists it from side to side, then he drops the husk into a small glassful of hydrochloric acid.  John isn’t sure why or how dissolving _flies_ in hydrochloric acid will help solve the case, and yet, here they are.  Bubbling, the fly eventually hisses out of existence.

 

Sherlock makes a contemplative noise.

 

“Well?” John says, snapping to attention.

 

Sherlock ignores him and turns to Molly.  “I need you to get a substantial amount of materials for plaster casting,” he instructs.

 

She makes half a start towards the door and hesitates.  “Anything else?” she asks.

 

“Coffee, thank you.”

 

“Food’s not allowed in the lab,” she objects.

 

Sherlock fails to respond.

 

She pauses half a second more, says “Okay,” and leaves the lab with a swish of her ponytail.

 

Sherlock turns abruptly to John.  “Get more of this,” he says, meaning the acid.

 

John pulls on a pair of gloves and paces to the cabinet, pulling out a large sealed container of HCl.  He brings it back and sets it before Sherlock.

 

Sherlock snaps, “Goggles.”

 

“You’re wearing them,” John reminds.

 

Sherlock sighs loudly, and John realises he meant goggles for _him_.  John’s almost touched at the Sherlockian version of concern, but just says, “Er, right,” and pulls on a pair.  Sherlock immediately unscrews the jar and starts pouring acid into dozens of flasks.

 

“John, more glassware.”

 

“How much?”

 

“All of it.”

 

John huffs and walks back to the cabinets, grabs four flasks, and turns to see Sherlock lighting two Bunsen burners for some reason.  John sets the empty glassware near Sherlock and goes to the cabinets to get some more.

 

When he turns back, Sherlock is boiling a flask of HCl on one Bunsen and lighting a cigarette on the open blue flame of the other.  John suppresses the urge to swear as Sherlock lifts the cigarette to his lips and sucks on the filter—John could’ve sworn he’d found all the hidden ones—and instead says crisply, “Sherlock, you can’t smoke in the lab.” 

 

John dumps the glassware next to his flatmate, who blows the smoke deliberately across the open beakers of acid and dumps the ash into the boiling liquid.

 

“I have to replicate the condition of Mr. Yokohama’s body at the time of death as accurately as possible.  He was doused in a large quantity of hydrochloric acid, his head completely encased in plaster casting, and then left in a smoky school toilet,” Sherlock says.  He takes another long drag of the cigarette and exhales through his nose with a contented “Mmm,” smoke curling down his lab apron.

 

John lets out an exasperated sigh.  “You bloody git, you’re just looking for an excuse.  There isn’t even a dead body in here, in case you didn’t notice,” he says, reaching a hand out for the remaining stub.  “Hand it over.”

 

Sherlock frowns and bypasses John’s hand to deposit the stub into the boiling acid, sighing.  “I suppose I can’t expect you to fully understand my methods, John.”  He pulls out a carton from his back pocket.

 

John makes a grab for it, but Sherlock pulls his hand away.  “Sherlock, you were doing _really_ well,” John says through gritted teeth, “and I’m not going to let you smoke all those.  _Hand it over._ ”

 

Sherlock is utterly unfazed, tapping a cig out of the carton and lighting it on the blue Bunsen flame.  He just about succeeds in getting it to his lips when John snags his gloved wrist.

 

“For god’s sakes, Sherlock, if nothing else, you’ll set off the smoke alarm in here.”

 

Sherlock stills, then his mouth drops open in a wide ‘O.’  He sends John an enthused, enamoured grin.  “Oh, John, this is why I keep you around.”

 

John blinks, thrown off by the sudden mood shift.  “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t get kicked out of every institution you walk into.”

 

“No, John!  The smoke alarm at the crime scene!  It never went off, and that room was _filled_ with smoke.”

 

“So?  One of the students probably dismantled it, or the battery died, that doesn’t mean—”

 

“It means _everything_ , John,” Sherlock insists.  He looks to the trapped cigarette nestled in his lab glove and flicks it away, making it magically land in a nearby acid sample.  With his spare hand, he reaches for the carton.

 

John, exasperated, releases the one hand and closes his fingers around the carton.  Sherlock clings onto it with a limpet-strong grip.  A tug-of-war ensues, with John trying to pry Sherlock’s gloved fingers off with his own set of gloved fingers, and with Sherlock yanking hard at the carton.  John’s elbow collides with a beaker, and acid spills onto his clothed arm and down his left side.

 

They freeze, eyes widening with horror, and John yells “ _FUCKING SHIT_ ” as Sherlock shoves him toward the safety shower in the corner of the lab.  John gets under the showerhead, Sherlock pulls on a metal chain, and the shower gurgles anciently before spewing out a sudden rush of cold, musty-smelling water.

 

John shouts an even louder “ _JESUS CHRIST_ ” and instinctively folds his arms across his chest. 

 

Sherlock jumps away from the water and commands, “John, you have to take off your clothes.  Now.”

 

Muttering an endless stream of profanity, John starts to peel off his now drenched clothing, starting with the gloves, then the goggles (which, incidentally, he’s immensely relieved he was wearing), before moving on to shirt, shoes, jeans, and socks.  He stands under the barrage of uncomfortably cold water, rubbing at his skin, shivering.  He glares ominously at Sherlock, who backs away to the lab table.

 

“This is all your fucking _fault_ , you fucking _arse_.”

 

Sherlock at least has the decency to look a little contrite for a moment, before he clears his throat and says, “Ah—all of your clothes, John.”

 

“Are you fucking _kidding me?_ ” John snarls.

 

“No.”  Sherlock points over John’s shoulder, and John turns his head to see a laminated sign posted on the wall behind the shower, listing the rules for proper safety shower use.  One of the items declares, “Take off **ALL** your clothes!!!  No ifs, ands, or but(t)s about it!!!”

 

With a heavy sigh, John peels off his wet underwear, dropping it with a wet _plop_ on top of his pile of soaked clothing.  He fumes nakedly.  “How long do I have to stay under here?” he asks.

 

“Fifteen minutes,” Sherlock replies.

 

“Fucking Christ,” John mutters, rubbing at his arms.  “It’s fucking freezing under here.”

 

“It will probably warm up in a moment,” Sherlock attempts to reassure him.  “Old plumbing usually takes a minute.”  They stare at each other, then Sherlock sighs, removes and sets his gloves aside, and raises his goggles to his forehead.  He reaches for the cigarette carton that had been abandoned on the table, just out of reach of the acid spill.

 

John bristles.  “If you fucking smoke one of those now, I _will_ punch you in the face.”

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and lights the cigarette on the Bunsen by his elbow.  “You might, but not for another twelve minutes,” Sherlock says, then places the cigarette in his mouth with a smirk.  He leans against the table and watches John, calmly smoking.

 

John does feel a bit warmer now, but it’s more from sheer suppressed rage rather than the water temperature improving.  He tries to take deep breaths, then gives up and snaps, “Don’t you have anything better to do?  Like clean up the acid spill?  That’d be a hell of a lot more productive than you gawking at my cold, naked arse and smoking.”

 

Sherlock shrugs and taps ash into an acid beaker.  “The spill will still be there when you’re out of danger,” he replies, then smiles.  “Besides, this is more fun.”  He sends John a smouldering, intense look that would normally make John bend the git over the nearest horizontal surface and fuck him senseless, but in this case it only pisses him off even more.

 

“I am _not_ having fun, Sherlock!”

 

“Oh, calm down, John,” Sherlock rumbles.  He sucks obscenely on the cigarette and exhales with a breathy sigh.  “I’ll give you a blow job once we’re home.”

 

“No you will not,” John retorts, completely unimpressed.  “You’re sleeping on the sofa tonight.”

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, equally unimpressed.  “Our flat has two bedrooms, John, you can’t keep me out of both of them.”

 

“Oh, you just _watch_ me, Sherlock, I will lock you out of the flat if I have to,” John growls.

 

Sherlock smirks and leans a little more against the table, bracing his hands on the table’s edge and shifting his legs a little further apart.  “Is that an order, Captain?”

 

“WE ARE NOT DOING THIS NOW,” John bellows, and flings a handful of water in Sherlock’s direction.  It splashes his shoes.

 

Sherlock sighs and pouts, drumming his fingers on the table’s edge.  “Strange.  Usually the offer of blow jobs cheers you up considerably.”

 

“Not when you’ve drenched me in acid and then deliberately pissed me off, they don’t,” John snaps, and then notices that there’s a thin tendril of dark smoke rising from Sherlock’s elbow.  He frowns in confusion for a moment, then raises his eyebrows at the flicker of an orange flame on the black suit-jacket.  Clearing his throat, he points and calmly declares, “Fire.”

 

Sherlock looks over and yelps, slapping at the flame on his arm, and John decides ‘to hell with it’ and marches out of the shower, grabs Sherlock by the front of his shirt, and drags him back under the shower.

 

Sherlock splutters out a curse and glares down at his shower-mate, who smirks back up at him.

 

“John, that was completely unnecessary,” he declares.  His dark curls flop overtop the goggles on his forehead, and his normally tight-fitting shirt hugs his skin more than usual, outlining muscles on his chest and stomach.

 

“True,” John agrees, “but this is more fun.”  He smiles in earnest, a warm curl of avenged satisfaction lightening his mood somewhat.

 

Sherlock blinks, then slowly returns the smile.  He places a tentative hand on John’s waist and steps closer.  “Knew you’d see things my way eventually.”

 

“You’re still sleeping on the sofa tonight,” John retorts.

 

Sherlock hesitates, then leans down a little.  “I _am_ sorry,” he murmurs, maintaining eye contact in spite of the deluge cascading off his eyebrows.  “And my previous offer still stands.”

 

“You’re damn right it does; I deserve to get something out of this mess,” John replies curtly.

 

Sherlock grins and kisses him, and John makes a disgruntled noise because cigarette breath is _not_ pleasant to deal with.  John breaks off the kiss with a pointed “ _uck_ ” and instead nips at Sherlock’s neck, eliciting a surprised gasp.  Sherlock tugs him flush against his clothed, wet torso and slides a hand down to squeeze John’s arse.  John hums agreeably and pulls off the goggles on Sherlock’s forehead; Sherlock lowers his head to John’s shoulder and kisses gently at a collarbone, and well, John may have said they weren’t doing this now, but apparently they _were_ doing this now, and he could always punch Sherlock in the face later and—

 

They freeze at the sound of the door swinging open, and John looks over to see Molly Hooper standing in the doorway with cotton bandages and a tub of plaster of Paris, no coffee, and a startled blush on her face.  He also notes that the hydrochloric acid over the Bunsen has since boiled over and that Sherlock’s hand is still very much on his naked arse.

 

Molly declares, quietly but plainly, “I was gone ten minutes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [the infamous shower scene](http://youtu.be/Xx1ZX6u9t9Q) shown to many an American high school chemistry lab (seriously, if you've never seen it, it's hysterical).
> 
> I also recommend watching [the entire safety video](http://vimeo.com/6170550) as well, for two different reasons:
> 
> 1\. The first half is dull, but it's very useful for getting a rudimentary sense of how Sherlock might go about doing science things. (Or how he _should_ be going about doing science things but is possibly ignoring to do so.)  
>  2\. The second half (starting about 19:26, if you want to skip for funnies) is chock-ful of awkward hilarity, such as:
> 
> a.) suspiciously phallic inserting of tubes into stoppers, with the narrator insisting that you must use lubricant and push in gently. It will also remind you, ad nauseum, to wash off the lubricant when you are finished with it.  
> b.) overdramatic and clearly fake injuries  
> c.) mannequins demonstrating how to stop drop and roll (badly)  
> d.) completely blasé reactions to large fires  
> e.) terrible 90s infomercial-esque acting


End file.
